


wouldn't have you any other way

by AllTheCosmos



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, M/M, Post S3, idk it's just the softest most ridic thing i've ever written, just that high grade fluff y'all, learning how to recover together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:02:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22688941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllTheCosmos/pseuds/AllTheCosmos
Summary: Sometimes, when Billy wakes up - in that weird space between full alertness and still half asleep - his mind will betray him. His memories will kick in and old impulses fire anew, telling him he needs to run. Leave. As fast as he can. To not get caught. To get the hell out. The voice inside his head will scream at him that he’s an idiot for hoping. Will tell him he doesn’t belong. That he’ll never have this.Because sometimes, when Billy wakes up - he’ll forget he’s in a safe space now, a place where he can stay, a place that’shis.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 12
Kudos: 153





	wouldn't have you any other way

Steve's woken up by the shifting of bedsheets, the quiet squeak of the mattress as the old springs compress and protest, and the distinctive shuffling sounds of all that warmth next to him, solid and real, pulling away from his arms. 

It's the sweep of cold air, filling up a space that should never exist, that pulls Steve fully into consciousness. 

“Babe?” Steve groans, sleep voice low and cracking. 

He stretches out enough to raise his head, blinking against the darkness of their room. Blearily, he can make out Billy sitting up on the edge of the bed, the broad expanse of his back towards Steve. He looks like he's reaching forward for something, probably snagging his shirt off the floor. 

And Steve can read the line of his shoulders, the straightness of his back, the grip around his t-shirt. Can read him like a damn book. 

Steve curses. Gently. Masks it by mumbling it right into his pillow. 

Not this. 

Not this again.

It's no secret both of them come with impressive files. Stuffed full of documents detailing exactly how fucked up they are, the unimaginable shit they've been through, there’s probably a whole folder on trauma-filled behaviors, what to expect when one of them is about to go off, there’s probably a section dedicated to warnings and cautions, huge red flags, their files - wrapped in police tape, screaming _do not cross_. 

But Steve’s made his own Billy file. Along the way. One that’s full of observations. Tips. Tricks. Best practices. Strategies to get Billy Hargrove to calm the hell down, shut the fuck up, and accept some goddamn affection. All of these things he’s learned the hard way. And Steve’s pretty sure that's what being in love means. At least, to him. He’s the champion of fucking up things with Billy and making sure he never fucks up that particular way again.

This though, this page he has indexed in that file. Knows how to handle this now. 

Billy’s already pulling on his shirt. Will probably shuffle around for his jeans next. 

So Steve rips off the police tape. 

But he does it the right way, the way he’s learned what works best. 

“Sneaking out on me again, Hargrove?” Steve sighs, rolls onto his back. Waits until Billy freezes up. Watches the man he loves, the absolute dumbass, his sweet perfect idiot, look over his shoulder guiltily. Blue eyes muted in the low early morning light, not quite looking at Steve. 

“Didn’t mean to wake you up, princess.” Billy grumbles out, softly, even manages a small smile. It looks terrible. 

Steve wants to punch him. 

But that’s not helpful. Instead Steve sighs mightily, dials into his backup patience, and shimmies himself closer. Awkwardly flipping and flopping around the sheets and blankets, until he can tuck himself up against Billy’s back. 

_Christ_ , Billy’s skin is always sun-soaked hot. Steve presses his whole face into one freckled shoulder. Basks in it. Breathes it in. 

“Better head out soon.” Billy says, reaches out and pats Steve’s arm, twice. Pulls his lips into this fake, shadow of a smile. 

“You gotta get to your other boyfriend’s place?” Steve throws out, yawns around it. Pulls closer. Feels Billy’s whole body tense against him. And Steve won’t deny that the little answering growl Billy produces then, restrained but still intimidating as hell, does things to him. 

“Hm?” Steve prods, wraps an arm around Billy’s middle, “Where you going, superman?” 

But Billy just holds steady. Holds himself entirely too still, actually. Looks at the mismatched rugs on their floor. Hangs his head.

Steve wants to climb into him. Claw right into that brain of his. Rip out everything that’s making Billy feel this way. 

“I gotta leave, Harrington.” Billy starts, voice toneless and empty, “I gotta go. I can’t stay.”

And if Steve had a fucking nickel … 

He wants to throttle him, shake him right out of that frightening middle distance stare. That deadness of his voice. Tell him that he’s wrong, that he’s being dumb, tell him to shut up and go back to sleep. But he’s fucked up like that before. Knows that that’s jarring and unhelpful. Needs to let Billy come back to him. 

So. Steve stretches again, luxuriating in it, and curls himself fully against Billy’s side. Shamelessly leeching off some of that golden warmth. 

“But the bed’s too cold without you,” Steve complains, and in any other moment he knows Billy would absolutely make some kind of snide comment about how whiny his voice gets like this, all high and pathetic. 

Instead, Billy’s leg starts twitching. His fist, clenches against his thigh. 

“I can’t be here. I can’t.” Billy snaps, and now he’s approaching angry. More than upset. Breathing fast through his nose. “I can’t be here in the morning.” 

“Really?” Steve snorts, dares to press a soft kiss to that ridiculous tattoo, “Then who’s gonna make breakfast?” 

“I have to go. You know that.” Billy bites out, his voice low and sad. And he pulls himself out of Steve’s arms for the second time that morning. Which, _rude_. 

Steve watches him get up. Watches him pace. Watches him stand in the middle of their fucking bedroom, looking for his jeans and his cigarettes. And wow, Steve’s not digging this particular blast from the past. Knows enough to let it play out. 

Instead of reliving high school, Steve collapses back onto the mattress. On Billy’s side of the bed. Smashes his face into Billy’s pillow. Wonders why the hell it’s so much more comfortable than his. And why it smells so fucking good. He maybe groans a little. Considers switching them out when Billy won’t notice.

“I remember the first time you did this.” Steve starts, conversationally. Props himself up on an elbow and takes his time watching Billy step into his jeans. “It was our first night here.” He plucks at a thread of the well-worn sheets beneath him, smiling. “I thought you were having second thoughts or some shit, that you didn’t want to live here.” Steve huffs, then cringes. He _way_ overreacted that night, ended up with both of them in tears. None of it helped. 

“Here?” Billy scoffs out, and Steve looks up in time to watch Billy turn a little, like he’s taking the room in for the first time. 

“Yeah, babe.” Steve smiles warmly back at him, feels it in his bones. He hates this but he’ll never get tired of telling Billy this particular bit of information, over and over again. As many times as he needs to hear it. Steve makes a dumb little all-encompassing jazz hand gesture. “Here. This is our place.” 

And Billy just narrows his eyes at him, eyebrows knotted up. Like it’s the biggest line of bullshit he’s ever heard. 

Steve laughs. Outright. Because _yeah, he gets it_. Still feels the need to defend their carved out slice of something, though. 

“Hey, it may be a shithole apartment,” Steve winks at him obnoxiously, “but it’s our shithole apartment.”

It only serves to make Billy more flustered. Like he can’t decide if he needs to be defensive or angry. Settles for both. 

And Steve’s done the over-explaining thing, too. Convinced himself that if he just told Billy everything when he gets like this, rambled out everything he knew to be true, Billy would suddenly get it. Snap out it. He remembers overwhelming him with too much information, babbling, begging. That didn’t go well either. 

And Billy’s back to looking at him like he’s maybe a little crazy. Like he can’t possibly make any sense out of the words Steve says. And that’s fine. Steve will take that. 

“I have to go.” Billy is saying, but he’s still just standing there. His voice is still in that terrible slide of lifeless and stuck. 

“‘Kay,” Steve yawns, burrows deeper into Billy’s side of the bed. It’s at least ten degrees warmer than his side of the bed, he’s sure. “If you have to go, I understand. But bring back donuts, okay?” 

And that gets Billy sputtering, looking back at Steve like he’s actually lost it. He makes this scoffing sound and Steve listens to him turn. Listens to him rip his jacket off the back of the door. Listens to him walk out of their bedroom. 

Steve inhales, deep and calming. Breathes in nothing but whatever is left clinging to Billy’s pillow. And wow, they’re really going to have a talk if Billy’s buying his own super comfy custom pillows … and not sharing. 

It's probably weird that Steve finds it almost comforting - listening to Billy stomp around the rest of their apartment. He wasn’t lying before, it is sort of a shithole but at least that means it small enough for Steve to easily identify where Billy is based on the echoes produced. 

Billy never actually makes it to the door. Has never made it past the door. Not anymore. 

Like now, Steve can hear Billy just sort of puttering about out there. And leaves him to it. This was also a past mistake he’s made. 

He’s ran out of the bedroom, tried to prevent Billy from leaving, crowded him in their small kitchen. And only succeeded in making Billy feel even more trapped, even more like an escape option was needed. 

He knows now that whatever Billy is doing, he needs to do it himself. Bring himself back to the space. Fit himself back into the present. 

Steve likes to imagine Billy’s rifling through all of his expensive copper pans Steve bought him last Christmas. Checking that they’re all there. That they’re all still his. Tangible proof. Pieces of evidence that this life they have here is still here. That’s it’s real. Something he can hold onto. 

Steve also selfishly hopes Billy’s out there getting some ideas about the flatiron pan he uses to make pancakes - Steve could really go for some pancakes. 

And so he drifts, easily sinking into the warmth of the bed, lets himself doze off thinking about the way Billy makes a huge fuss over how Steve eats his pancakes. Scoffs and turns up his nose when Steve douses them in syrup _and_ butter. But Billy’s judgements are like, so invalid because Billy eats his pancakes with only bits of fresh fruit on top of them like a real psychopath. 

And. 

So. 

He waits. 

Waits for -

A well aimed crumpled up piece of paper hits his right in the middle of the forehead. 

Steve huffs, but doesn’t deign to actually wake up or move or do anything about it. He simply turns over, taking all of the blankets with him. 

He hears Billy laugh, softly, from the doorway. And if Steve wasn’t so goddamn comfortable he would push himself up to check the time, and he should really start keeping a log, ‘cause he’s convinced this has to be the fastest one yet. They’re like, totally killing this. Kicking past trauma’s ass. 

His only reward is Billy shoving - _shoving_ \- him back to his side of the bed, blanket burrito and all. Steve has to flail a little to keep himself from falling off the edge. 

It’s not too bad though because Billy’s dropping back down onto the mattress next to him. Pulling him back towards the middle. Strong arms wrapped around his torso, a solid wall of warmth at his back. 

“That one was the worst one yet.” Billy says into his hair, nose dragging up his neck. 

Steve snorts, shimmies around enough to elbow Billy in the ribs, “No, shut up, they're all winners.”

“Harrington, that one literally just said 'you're a dumbass’.” 

_Ah_ , Steve thinks, feeling Billy’s words pressed into his shoulder, shivers, he must have found the one stuck to the side of their stackable washer/dryer unit. He was particularly proud of that one. 

“Yeah, well, you know, you are.” Steve sighs, and listens to Billy grumble next him. 

“Pretty sure Dr. Theresa said they’re supposed to be supportive.”

And she definitely did. She also advised that they should be personal. Meaningful. Something to help reset a spinning mind, dial back in. Steve just happens to be in a relationship where names like idiot and asshole and dumbass are just as common, if not more, than other terms of endearment. It’s as genuine as it gets. 

“Oh, I’m like, 100% supportive of your dumb ass.” Steve offers and feels the bed shift as Billy turns onto his back, making that weird half growl half snarl sound he’s so fond of. 

Steve shuffles around in Billy’s arms, turns to face him properly. The idiot. 

He pushes a curl off Billy forehead. 

“It worked, didn't it?”

“It's an insult,” Billy mumbles, like he’s actually upset about it, “of course it didn't work, _dumbass_.”

Steve beams. It totally worked. Of course it did. He’s awesome.

“And yet,” Steve taps him on the nose, “here you are.”

Billy bats his hand away, “Kind of regretting it.”

“Yeah?” Steve laughs, shimmies forward to press a quick kiss to an eyebrow. “Feel free to take a walk, then. You know, maybe around block and, oh, I don’t know, take Brighton Ave down a few blocks, then maybe a left on Central then-”

And Steve’s just giving directions to his favorite bakery, the one with the donuts. And Billy’s sighing so hard, so long suffering, that it’s totally worth it. 

Billy pushes away from him but he’s smirking, slow and lazy, “Did you want me to actually leave? Cause I'll go, pretty boy. You're not as cute as you think you are.” 

“That’s a lie.” Steve laughs, pushes himself up, right into Billy’s space. 

Billy only scoffs, makes a show out of rolling his eyes. 

And even in the low light of their bedroom, Steve can recognize the pools of electric blue, finding him again. 

And this is familiar territory, this is what Steve has learned. A known theory that has been tried and tested, something Steve would include on the first page of that file on Billy. Once he has Billy underneath him, teasing and snarky and bright like a solar flare, Steve can lay it on thick. He just needed to wait for Billy to get there. 

“I just want you to know,” Steve starts, all business, pushing himself up until he’s more or less sitting across Billy’s legs, “that given the choice between having you or donuts in my bed, I would narrowly choose you.” 

Billy only snorts, shrugs. “I’d pick donuts.” 

Steve gasps, jabs him right in the chest, “Now that’s the second lie you’ve told in as many minutes, asshole.”

“Wanna hear another one?” Billy says, eyes glimmering with mischief. 

Steve narrows his gaze down at him because _does he really, though?_

“No.” Steve huffs, maybe a little petulant, “You should probably go with a truth, though. You know, help balance it out.” 

Billy sends him a hard look, like Steve’s being difficult on purpose and not playing along. He rolls his eyes, again, shakes his head a little, “Fine.” 

And Steve waits. Watches Billy’s mind click through and over whatever he’s about to say. Probably something super dumb about Metallica or hairspray brands or his awful new obsession with The Golden Girls. 

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” Billy says, plain and simple. Like it’s the most obvious truth he knows. And Steve can’t stop the way his stomach flips, drops. Feels his breath leave him in a rush. They’ve been doing this for three years and Billy still manages to catch Steve off guard, to get him all fucked up, feeling like the first time - _daily_. 

Because that’s just how it is with Billy. Steve can talk files and field guides and tips and tricks all day long, has practiced patience in spades, knows he’s the absolute authority on all things Hargrove because he’s put the work in. He’s pretty fucking great at loving him - he’ll give himself that - but Billy’s better. 

Billy doesn’t need any notes, he’s just like this. All the time. Right under the surface. All Steve had to do was pay attention. 

And pay attention he does - Steve can’t stop staring at Billy’s dumb little smile. The crooked one Steve covets, because he knows it’s just for him. Traces it with his finger. 

He probably spends a little bit too much time just staring back at him, can’t help it, knows he’s doing that Bambi impression Billy teases him about. Doesn’t give a single fuck about it in this moment, though. And Billy just lets him. Allows all of Steve’s glances, the touches, the closeness. Knows it’s Steve’s language, his reassurance, his time to process. Not only allows it but _seeks_ it, offers it, freely. 

“Stevie?” 

And he will never get tired of listening to Billy’s rumbling voice fracture all gentle and sweet over his name. Never. 

He slides a hand up Billy’s neck, bends to press his lips right to Billy’s throat to show his appreciation. 

“Hm?”

“C’mere.” 

And before Steve can really even move, Billy’s effectively pulling him back down, right down against him. Sprawled across him. Situating him until Steve’s legs are tangled with his, Steve’s arm across his stomach, Steve’s head on his chest. 

And Steve _loves_ this. Billy knows that. The contact. The warmth. How Billy’s skin is still sun-soaked hot. Always. 

But this is what he means. It’s probably in his own file too, somewhere. Under the police tape. Something lofty and cold and medical sounding about how he’s sort of shit at relationships. Never been exposed to what it could be like, what it should be like. But Steve has no doubts Billy would just set his whole file on fire before he would ever think to read it. 

Maybe that’s the way to go. Billy sometimes wakes up and forgets where he is. Steve sometimes gets anxious as fuck whenever things get intense. There’s more things, sure. Leftover fun little quirks from a time when neither of them believed they would get here. But they are here. They’ll figure it out. They’ll learn and they’ll fuck up and they’ll still be here. Steve’s head is right over a heartbeat and he’s not going fucking anywhere. He doesn’t need a file to tell him that. 

But right now. Right now Steve would very much like to take a two week long nap, just like this, thanks. They won’t stay like this when they fall back asleep, both a little too energetic in their slumber. But that’s fine. This though. This is all he really needs. This and maybe donuts. And maybe - 

“Hey, will you make pancakes later?” 

Billy startles out a laugh, a genuine one, loud and echoing in their room. 

It sounds like clearing cobwebs. Like shaking your head to get the last droplets of the Upside Down out of your ear. It sounds distinctly Hargrove in the deep, rough edges of it. Like a burst of ocean breeze set to fuck up Steve’s hair. It sounds like adding on years to a life you’re finally fucking living. And Steve wants to make Billy laugh like that for the rest of his life. 

Billy drops a kiss to the top of his head. Mumbles out something about demanding princesses who need to go the fuck back to sleep. 

And before burning them, Steve decides he would add just one more document to their files. Just one. A crisp, white sheet of paper. With just one line of text. 

_The patient is happy._

And maybe like, a big ol middle finger drawn underneath it.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm dontfuckingstartwithme on tumblr xx


End file.
